


Blessed are those who mourn

by grabmotte



Series: Cold Comfort [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, Death, Faked Death, Grief/Mourning, Kink Meme, M/M, Series 2 spoilers, emotional stress, unable to grieve publicy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 14:40:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3414464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grabmotte/pseuds/grabmotte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richelieu and Treville had been in a relationship for years. Now that Richelieu is dead Treville has a hard time coping, his situation aggravated by the fact that he can't be seen grieving for him openly. Until he learns that Richelieu faked his own death. </p><p>Originally posted to the kink meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kyele](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/gifts).



Treville’s duty and position required of him to remain standing behind the king, ideally casting an ever watchful eye upon his monarch. He was glad of it. Louis had looked like he had lost his father all over again all the way to the church and Treville was uncertain whether he could stomach looking him in the face during the ceremony. 

But he was also glad of the arrangement since it meant he would be only a spectator at this event. He was not required to say anything, do anything, or even to get noticed by anyone. He was here for the king and perhaps because he had to be seen doing the proper and polite thing by paying his respects. He was not here for his personal loss. 

Part of him would have liked to hear the sermon. He knew enough of the man who had written it for the priest in charge to expect it to be fittingly eloquent and solemn. Treville had often seen them together, when Richelieu had been working late into the night. The monk in concern had been one of the cardinal’s closest confidants and advisors, at least as much as Richelieu had been able to allow himself to confide in anyone regarding his work, and he certainly did not – had not – suffered fools. Whatever words the père had prepared, no doubt they were profound, and full of respect; worthy of this departed soul. 

Treville's eyes scanned the room until they settled on said gifted writer. He could not see the man’s face from where he was standing, so he did not know whether he sat there stone-faced, unreadable, or whether he allowed the grief and worry for the passing of his protector show. 

Treville resisted an urge to shake his head. Whatever sentimentalities were to escape the man; coming from him they would be overlooked, forgiven.

Absently he became aware again of the voice reading the sermon. It reached his ears but Treville could not risk listening. Instead he forced himself to think of something, anything else that came to mind – duty rosters, the inspection of the armoury, how to get the king back to the palace without incident – and all the while he could feel the guilt rise with the bile, because this was Armand’s last tribute, but Treville might as well not have been there, because he could not risk crying. 

He took a deep breath and resumed staring at the wall opposite until his vision blurred.

Suddenly there was a hand at his back – it had to be one of the musketeers standing behind him – and for but a numb second he took it for a gesture of comfort, until the realisation hit: _He knows_ , he thought and the numbness turned into terror. Then the moment passed and it was clear that the man was simply tugging his coat to try and catch the captain’s attention. “Is everything in order, Captain?” 

_No_. He could feel the emotion well up and prick at the corners of his eyes. _Lord, no!_ _Not now_. 

He turned, brushing off the hand on his cloak and stormed out of the nave, out of the church in a brisk pace, forcing himself to refrain from running. Avoiding the pompous main entrance he happened upon a little side-door for the use of the clerks and clergymen that proved to be unlocked. 

As soon as found himself in the open he threw out a hand to catch himself on the nearest wall. He bowed his head, fighting the nausea that clamoured to take hold of him. He had barely time to let go of a sigh and a shiver before footsteps alerted him to the presence of at least one musketeer.

He turned to look over his shoulder and saw the soldier standing in the open doorway, clearly unable to decide what he had just seen or what he should do. 

Treville realised he had never answered the man's question. 

“I’m good,” he said, and the musketeer acknowledged the lie with a solemn nod. “It was getting hot in there.”

The musketeer still hovered. “I’ll fetch something to drink, Captain.” 

“Get back in there.” It took effort to keep his voice steady, but Treville found that the anger helped. It had never been far these last days; always simmering beneath the surface. Allowing it to reign over all other emotions enabled him to speak through clenched teeth: “Go! I’ll be along.” 

And he meant it. 

It was not like he could leave now. He was expected back at the palace after the ceremony concluded, for the queen might have her child by then, and France her future king. 

He groaned at the thought. Assuming there were no complications and the child turned out to be healthy – merciful Lord, let it be so – it could still take hours before the child were to be presented to the court. Until then Treville was expected to attend to the king and keep up a stoic face when all he wanted to do instead was crawl into his bed and die.

* * *

_"Then it is a great shame that he is dead and you are alive."_

When he finally headed back to the garrison, Treville found it had not been the worst conversation he had had with a grief-stricken Louis since Richelieu had died. Although this impression might have mostly been due to the fact that he felt like little could be worse than having to comfort an inconsolable king about the death of your lover only minutes after you had learned of his passing.

The king's offer today had left Treville stunned, fumbling for words. He had tried playing dumb, pretending not to have understood what was required of him at first – hoping that Louis would for once catch the hidden meaning and drop the matter. But the king had repeated his request, visibly becoming irritated while Treville felt the panic rise and push his heart into his throat. 

Treville never had to refuse a request by his king before. There had been times when he had to reveal a flaw in the monarch's thinking, point out a bad idea or an actual falsehood. Of course, every time he would word his objections in a way that only Richelieu – if anyone – could have wrapped more tactfully. But while he was one of the few men ever to disagree with the king and able to get away with it, he had never ever before refused a direct request. 

Crossing this line felt unnatural, unsafe. He knew Louis too well to even hope he would be forgiven for this rejection – especially considering the king's current emotional state. Still Treville found himself unable to give in to what he knew to be a disastrous decision.

No doubt Richelieu would have had a couple of choice words for him in private on that matter. But of course, that assumption was part of the realm of imagination now. 

Every aspect of Treville's court duties appeared changed without Richelieu. He would still argue, push, but there was no one to push back. It was a funny feeling to miss someone you spent so much time of your day to day life arguing with. 

In this case, however, maybe Richelieu would have agreed with Treville: The fact that their talents and perspectives had been so different – complementary – was part of what had drawn them to each other. Each of them being less effective without the other. He doubted Richelieu would have approved of Treville attempting to take over his field of expertise since that endeavour could only end with France being driven to ruin.

_Then it is a great shame that he is dead and you are alive._

For all that Louis had accused Treville of having cut him to the quick by rejecting the offer; the king had not hesitated to retaliate in kind. Treville had not been able to hide his reaction entirely before the king. But the exact words hurt less than the sentiment of having so utterly failed his monarch. Richelieu had scarce been buried, and now it looked like Louis would be doing without Treville's advice as well. What a way to keep the state Richelieu had sacrificed his health for intact. 

Louis had meant to hurt Treville and somehow his aggrieved mind had focused his wits to find the remark that would cut deepest. Yet Treville felt unable to muster the energy to be indignant about it. Perhaps part of him agreed with the king's assessment.

When they eventually reached the garrison he felt tired. He dismissed his tail of musketeers that had accompanied him on the way back from the palace with nothing but a grunt and stomped up the familiar wooden stairs and slammed his door shut. 

Inside his office he took one look at the pile of correspondence waiting for him and considered heading for the attached bed chamber instead. With an annoyed sigh he sat down behind his desk and had only just picked up the first piece of paper when someone knocked at the door. 

Would this day never end?

The musketeer who entered hardly had time to address his captain before Treville barked at him: "What is it?"

The musketeer's face turned to a mask of white marble as he answered.

"I bring the register, Captain."

Treville rubbed his eyes and ordered him to leave it on the desk in what he thought was a neutral voice. He reminded himself that it was not the musketeer's fault that he was in a foul mood. Nor could he risk his men picking up on what bothered him. He remembered the musketeer who had followed him outside during the mass and cursed himself once more for his weakness. Their concern for him would be touching if it weren't so dangerous. As it were, all kinds of comfort that could possibly be offered from that quarter had to remain extremely unwelcome.

Usually Treville would ask the musketeer in charge of the register for a verbal summary of the watch that had just ended, but this evening he dismissed the man immediately. 

The musketeer in question dropped off the book perhaps a tad too hastily and retreated. No doubt the soldier was glad to leave the office of his bad tempered captain behind, even if the stony mien he had put on did not show it. 

Treville realised that his churlishness set the men on edge but was unable to help it. 

Well, at least the king would avoid calling on him for a while if at all possible. 

Treville forced his thoughts back into focus and took up his correspondence again, disgusted by how much of the pile turned out to be the private letters of concerned members of the so-called elite who were concerned about the power vacuum left by the cardinal's death, and who would like – in more subtle terms, of course – to know the king's favourite and captain of the musketeers on their side as the new pecking order was decided. Well, much good would that favouritism do them now. 

While he sorted the begging letters from those of actual interest he considered turning the former pile into kindling.

* * *

By nightfall Treville found himself alone in his private chambers having read and written until his eyes started to strain. The musketeers had made themselves scare all afternoon and he could not help but feel disgusted at himself for it. They had not done anything to deserve their captain taking out his frustrations on them – apart from daring not to act too distraught over the passing of a man they had had no reason to love. 

Even more shameful, said frustrations were unworthy of any Christian. 

As soon as he closed the door behind him, shrouding him in the privacy of his bedchamber, the same low sentiments returned his thoughts to the king. 

Louis' grief exhausted him. Or rather, wrestling down the burning ice did that stirred in Treville's guts each time he had to watch the king fight for composure (and so often fail) – only to receive condolences from courtiers, and comfort from his queen and favourites.

But certainly this at least was going to pass now. The queen had born a healthy son and surely Louis' devastation over Richelieu's death would soon grow more distant at the pleasure of having succeeded in producing an heir to the throne and at the joy of watching his child grow up.

Sighing heavily Treville unbuckled his weapons and let them drop onto a chair. Sitting down on the bed he considered whether he should bother to take his boots off.

It was often said of a soldier that he could sleep anywhere and it used to be true for Treville. But sleep had turned elusive over the last few days, coming to him only after hours spent chasing circular thoughts.

It had been days even before Richelieu had died since he had last found rest

Treville exhaled noisily despite himself. He was a grown man, and a soldier. Loss was far from out of his field of experience, but every loss proved different in its own way. And this time it proved particularly difficult.

Richelieu's illness had progressed fast. It had begun innocently, with the cardinal feeling faint, complaining about cramps and pains. Eventually had come the day he had spent more time in bed than out of it, holding court in his bedroom and in the end becoming bed-ridden. Treville had been able to do little more than look on and worry. 

Being shooed from the sickbed of his lover at every opportunity had only furthered his frustration. It had been acceptable for him to visit Richelieu under the pretext of having to settle matters concerning their shared duties in service of king and country. But the captain of the king's musketeers could not very well have taken up more time at his side than the cardinal's advisors, his protégées, his doctors and confessor, let alone the king. They had managed to arrange a couple of secret visits as well, unnoticed by anyone who mattered. Constantly having to scuttle and leave through the servant's entry to make room for other people had still smarted. Stubbornly Treville had returned day after day, until eventually Richelieu begun sending him away as well; no doubt to protect them, their secret, and ultimately Treville's life.

In consequence, ultimately he had not been able to see him that last evening. When he had tried he had been told that Richelieu needed to rest, and no one would be allowed to disturb him expect for the king or his confessor. The next morning he had been dead.

Treville had been left with a great many things unsaid, including goodbye.

Yet he could not help but wonder if Richelieu had never actually wanted him there in the first place. Surely the cardinal could have found some way for Treville to be there for him if he had wished to see him during his final days. Or maybe he had been too far gone by then to arrange anything. According to his doctors his eventual passing had been peaceful. But even if it had not Treville doubted they would have told the truth to him or anyone. Anything but an easy passing would have been too unseemly a death for the great man of state to be made public.

He sighed again and rubbed his eyes.

_Hell._

He looked to the window overseeing the courtyard in which even at this moment musketeers would be meeting and training. He made sure the door was locked before he tried to settle down and waited for sleep to come. 


	2. Chapter 2

The next couple of days passed uneventful as far as life at the garrison were concerned. Almost as if nothing had changed in the preceding week. Once more he found himself being dismissed from the side of the king to head home to a desk buried under correspondence and paperwork.

But it was hard for Treville not to note the cardinal's absence every passing day, especially at the palace. Yet it was not just his physical absence or anything particular in their daily interactions that made themselves felt. All these things were glaringly obvious in their absence as well. But Richelieu, as important, as larger as life, as irreplaceable as he had been was not the only thing missing. With him had gone that part of Treville that did not exist anywhere else, without this partner to share it with.

He had always been aware that their relationship had been an anomaly, hidden, quiet and invisible. Now that Richelieu was dead all parts of that relationship ceased to exist, while the world went on failing to notice the absence of something it had never realised had been there.

But at court it was surprisingly the lack of Richelieu's mediating powers that made itself felt most. Not only was there now this rift Treville had so foolishly allowed to open between himself and the king. But the scene the Spanish ambassador and Rochefort had caused only days prior would surely lead to grief sooner or later as well. The Spanish crown was prideful – and rightly so, as it commanded the most formidable fighting force of the known world – and it certain to avenge any slight against itself or one of its envoys.

Treville let a grim smile tug at his lips. Don Fernando had been right in one regard: Richelieu would never have allowed that scene to transpire.

He wondered what his lover would have made of it all: Treville was just returning from the palace - despite the king's disaffection turning out to be one of the few things in life Louis ever committed himself to Treville still had his duties - where the king was already contemplating what honours to bestow upon Rochefort should he return triumphant from the rescue mission he had chosen to undertake. If he returned at all.

Treville was uncertain what outcome he should hope for.

There was no denying that Rochefort troubled him. Even before he had vanished years ago to eventually resurface in a Spanish prison the Comte had made Treville's skin itch.

Treville had respected and loved – in his own mind he could say it – Richelieu for many things; his commitment to the crown and his unerring judgement in steering the ship of state among them. But the captain had never made a secret of the fact that he despised both the methods and the agents the cardinal frequently employed – had employed – to realise his great plans. That part of their relationship at least had not been a lie.

Yet, presently this Rochefort, whatever he represented, rode towards Spain, accompanied by four of Treville's best men, on a mission to free or assassinate a man whom Treville loved like a brother and who should be long dead. The that it had been years even before his (supposed?) death that Treville had last seen de Foix face to face had not changed anything about their bond. It was a bond forged by battle, tempered by blood, and secured with secrets. The kind that could not be broken by time and distance alone.

He remembered the despatch that had told of general de Foix' death in battle. He remembered the date, what day of the week it had been, and what Richelieu had done for him after. Once the cardinal had wrested himself lose from his eternal balance act between appeasing the queen mother while simultaneously doing what he could to prise the king lose from her influence and running a state at the same time. All so he could look after Treville for an hour or two.

Treville blinked angrily and reminded himself that he was not in the privacy of his own chambers. And now he had sent men riding out after the ghost of his friend. If he was even that. Perhaps Rochefort was wrong. But perhaps de Foix was alive, and perhaps, just perhaps his musketeers stood a chance of freeing him.

And perhaps it was better to expect nothing of this fool's errand but his four musketeers to return to him alive.

But would the world be so cruel to take one beloved person from him, and then raise his hopes of having another returned to him immediately after, only to snuff that hope like a candle?

Treville let the sound of the city drown out his thoughts as he rode through the streets towards his destination. Even after the cardinal's death life in Paris had never stopped for the small people, but even as life began to take up shape again in the same old ways for its nobility, Treville found himself adrift, unable to let the river of time move him forward as it did everyone else. The last week had passed agonisingly slow for him, while everything around him hastened to return to a state of normalcy. He found it hard to accept that it had been only days since the funeral.

When he thought about the funeral he felt anger return. It was beneath him and certainly did nothing for his coping, but he had heard the king tearfully recounting how beautiful he thought it had been and how grateful he was to the priest who conducted it so superbly, and simply could not help it.

He wondered, not for the first time, whether he should enquire after the possibility to hold private ceremony, as surely it was what was needed here. But who could he possibly ask?

Treville chided himself for being still hung-up on the funeral while people who were not him already dismantled the cardinal's earthly possessions. The legal issues should have been clear, but last he had heard they were still hunting for Richelieu's testament. Treville half smelled a scandal there – the cardinal had been meticulous in his book-keeping. Something as important as a will did not simply disappear – but all he had to go on were rumours. No one told him anything and he was not in a position to ask.

It was someone else's affair now. Just as it had been someone else to attend Richelieu at his deathbed and someone else who brought the news to his kin. Once they found that missing will it would be someone else who would receive what worldly goods the cardinal had left to posterity. It was some comfort that while enjoying beauty and luxury as much as any nobleman Richelieu had never been one to bestow sentimental value upon mere possessions.

Without conscious thought Treville's gaze swept to the pistol at his belt, the engraved metal shining silvery.

They had both been too unsentimental and perhaps a little too cynical to consider less practical gifts. In fact, according to Richelieu's words the gun had not even been acquired as a gift to a lover, and he had merely felt that it would have been a waste of the intricate, elegantly designed metalwork to pass them up or into less skilled hands.

Treville had to smile despite himself. These games they had played.

He waited for a cart to pass in front of him before riding on, momentarily thrown off his train of thought. 

In the end he felt he had been holding up nicely so far in the days Richelieu's death.

After the initial panic had passed. While having watched the king crying his eyes out, forced to make consolatory noises while receiving grieved accusations in return. He guessed the fact that the cardinal’s death had left the state in such uproar and thus had kept him busy had helped sustain him. The waters were far from calm now, but the dauphin’s birth had covered the uneasiness with a celebratory stasis – a new anchor in the storm. The monarchy being strengthened through an heir had allowed everyone to calm down and catch their breath.

A rather ragged breath in Treville’s case.

It was one less drop in a sea of worry. Worry for a state that lay in shambles, vulnerable without its chief political defender. Worry for a court presented with a power vacuum and prepared to tear itself to pieces over it. Worry about the Vatican sending someone new to look after their interests with confused loyalties and little experience in French court politics. Worry for a king who lacked direction without the kind of political advisor who was loyal to nothing but France and himself and who possessed the courage and means to do whatever was necessary. Worry about spending too much time nursing his own hurt instead of supporting his king or looking for threats that might exploit Louis’ weakened position.

Lost in thought he finally turned into the garrison courtyard and stopped dead in the gateway. There stood a small coach in the center of the court, without a crest to identify its owner and the horses still in harness. Its driver was busying himself with a crust of bread, probably having waited right in the garrison courtyard for quite some time.

Treville dismounted and stepped closer to ensure he had not simply missed an identifying mark on the carriage, when one of the musketeers, Bernadotte, spotting his commander and his confusion quickly strode over to him to explain. 

"There's a footman upstairs, Captain. Waiting for you."

His brow furrowed after one more look at the black carriage, Bernadotte at his heels, while another musketeer took care of his horse, Treville climbed the stairs to his office and indeed found a man waiting by his door. But his frown only deepened as he took in the man's appearance, since he could not match the livery the servant wore underneath his travelling cloak to any noble house he was familiar with. 

Still, Treville asked him to accompany him inside, Bernadotte slipping in after them. 

"What is it?" he asked, before he even reached his desk. 

"I'm to deliver a message to you, Captain." 

Treville had guessed at much, but it was still highly irregular. Urgent messages came on horseback not by coach. People who could afford to spare a carriage to deliver nothing but a message usually had these messages delivered by men of rank and standing, not a simple servant.

"What is this message then?" he asked. 

"Forgive me, Captain. A moment, please," answered the messenger and produced his razor. 

Treville waved at Bernadotte to stand down who had reached for his pistol in alarm and watched in fascination as the footman fumbled an envelope out of the lining of his doublet. 

Treville's interest was peaked. 

"Who is this message from?"

"I'm not at liberty to say, sir."

Treville decided not to pry – immediately. He ripped open the envelope, retrieved the small piece of paper inside, and almost dropped the letter.

He knew that elegant, confident hand-writing too well to mistake it for anyone else's. The address to him was as formal as ever. But the tone of the writing, so familiar, immediately made him read the line in that fine, educated voice that had even managed to make a rank as pragmatic and unromantic as "Captain" sound like an endearment. 

And at the bottom of the short note there rested the powerful signature.

"Who sent you?" 

The footman took an insecure step back. "I'm afraid I was urged not to reveal that either."

Treville addressed the musketeer at the back of the room: "Leave us."

Bernadotte obeyed without lingering quite long enough for it to be called hesitation. 

As soon as the door clicked closed Treville turned back to the messenger.

"Do you know what this says?"

"No, sir," he answered, by now visibly uncomfortable with his assignment, "but I was told to invite you to take the coach outside."

"Are you serious?"

"I beg your forgiveness, it's what I was told."

Treville's eyes drifted back to the signature. 

_Richelieu._

"Leave me."

"Are you not coming then, sir?" He swallowed noisily. "Do I leave without you?"

"Wait outside."

As the door shut behind the footman Treville sat down and somehow managed not to miss the chair. 

He rested his chin in his hands, his eyes fixed on the paper, slightly crumpled from being hidden in the footman's clothing. 

_I need to speak to you._

That was the essence of the message. There was also a line about the coach and the footman. And a couple of more lines hinting that whoever wrote the note knew that Treville just sent his most trusted musketeers to fetch someone out of a Spanish prison. And then, again, there was the last line: 

_I need to speak to you._

And the familiar signature:

_Richelieu._

Could the letter have been forged? 

It was Richelieu's hand-writing for sure. But it would not be impossible for a forger to get their hands on documents written by him in order to study his hand. Nor would it be impossible for a skilled forger and writer to glean from a couple of letters how Richelieu wrote. But more importantly Treville knew how Richelieu wrote to him. This letter was genuine Richelieu. It was evident in the mockingly formal address, the derisive way he used to refer to the musketeers and these four in particular. The note had clearly been written by the late cardinal. But he was dead. So how old could this note be? He had not even known about the mission he had sent Aramis, Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan on before—before. 

It was impossible. 

And yet…

This was the cardinal. If anyone could pull this off… if anyone were to be so clever, so shrewd, so callous, so cruel… it would be him. _Wouldn't it?_

Treville rose and stuffed letter and envelope into his own coat. He grabbed his hat, his sword, checked to see that his pistols were loaded and strode onto the balcony overseeing the courtyard, where he found the footman waiting for him as expected.

"Let's get on with it then."

The footman could not hide the relief that lit up his eyes. He bowed his head again and hurried down the steps.

Treville turned to the musketeer he had sent outside earlier. 

"I have matters to attend to outside the city. I don't know how long I'll be gone. If Athos returns before me he's in charge. Until then you're in command."

Bernadotte nodded and managed a verbal acknowledgement after a stunned second and Treville knew he would not regret this choice – completely.

_If Athos returns before me it's because I've been murdered wherever that coach is going._

Bernadotte must have shared his thoughts since he was glowering warningly at the unfortunate footman with what had to be described as a death glare. 

Hesitating for a moment Treville looked across the courtyard, at the ever-present musketeers. He was abandoning them all to chase a ghost. 

The footman had opened the carriage door for him and the driver was gathering his reins. Treville reached for the side of the coach to climb in but stopped himself. Was he being foolish?

First de Foix and now the cardinal. If he waited long enough would someone tell him that both his old father and Henri IV had risen from their graves?

What if it was a trap? What if the coach and the letter were all part of an elaborate scheme to get rid of him? He wondered about the choice words the king would have for him should he get himself kidnapped. He doubted Louis would be the one to pay his ransom.

For a macabre second he wondered whether this could be the king's way of doing away with an unwanted follower and if the next stop of the coach would be the Bastille. 

But the idea was ludicrous of course. Why would Louis use the cardinal to lure him anywhere? Why would anyone? The king clearly had not known how close they had been. No one had. The last weeks had only confirmed that fact. Did that mean he really believed that Richelieu was still alive? It had not even been a quarter of an hour since he had invited the messenger into his office, and now he was prepared to accompany him – where? Was this proverbial Gascon impulsiveness driving him to commit an act of madness? 

Treville looked up feeling as if he had woken from deep slumber. The footman was endeavouring to keep a neutral mien, no doubt worried that Treville had changed his mind and he would have to return to whoever sent him here empty handed. Behind him he was aware of the mild curiosity of all the musketeers present in the courtyard as well as Bernadotte's lingering gaze, the lot of them no doubt concerned about the way their captain was leaving them behind. 

Could he really believe the wild tale the coach and the letter implied? But, no, that was not the question, was it? The true heart of the matter was that he could not afford not to believe. How often after someone passed away does one hear a familiar voice, a familiar tread? And while you know it is only your imagination playing tricks on your mind, you still look up. You still follow the sound of that footfall. Because what if one time, just once it were not imagination and allowing yourself to be fooled into hoping is all that is needed to make a ghost real? 

Now if that voice were not a voice, but a letter that is paper and ink and nestling in your pocket; and if that footfall is a carriage that is real and solid under your hand; who would not be foolish and get into that carriage?


	3. Chapter 3

By the time the coach stopped Treville no longer had any idea where they were. Night had fallen well before they reached their destination. He had been close to telling the driver to stop or even to turn back at least twice, prepared to jump and run if he were not obeyed, whatever bones he might break.

But eventually the carriage had come to a halt. And when the footman opened the door for Treville the captain was not greeted by the barrel of a loaded pistol in an unclaimed field where no one would ever find his corpse, but by what in the light of the young night sky looked like a chateau.

"There better be a good explanation for this" Treville muttered as he stepped out of the carriage.

The footman assured him that his arrival must already have been announced and that the master would certainly see him directly, but the words proved no comfort to Treville. 

He had to bite back a frustrated growl as he realised that he did not recognise the place at all. But then, it was very dark. Still, wherever he had been taken, he was convinced it was no estate Richelieu owned – not so close to Paris – and he could not ignore the jolt of both disappointment and unease that flashed through him at the thought. 

He was ushered inside – not through the front entrance, he noted – into a narrow corridor where the footman picked up and lit a candle, then lead across an equally cramped hallway that did not fit with the grand image the chateau had possessed outside even in the dark. 

Eventually Treville was bid to sit across from a wooden desk in a small room that was furnished like a rather Spartan study. A burning fireplace was the only indication that he was expected. He guessed that visitors entering the building through the main entrance never saw this part of it. 

As the footman turned to light an additional set of candles Treville made sure that his weapons were still at his side. 

He should have insisted on taking a guard with him. He should have told Bernadotte to have the carriage followed. He had convinced himself that the letter had been written by the cardinal, but did that mean he was safe? What if the letter was genuine but had been intercepted? What if Richelieu had been forced to write the letter? Surely he would have found a way to include a warning? All that assuming the cardinal truly was still alive. Or had been by the time that letter had been written and sealed.

A click alerted him to the fact that the footman had left and closed the door they had come through behind him. Treville checked the priming powder locked in the pans of his pistols and waited.

Once more he was left alone with his thoughts. 

During the ride there had been enough time for Treville to figure out which course of events he considered the most likely: That he was headed for a trap, that Richelieu was not truly dead; or both. But ultimately he had failed to decide, having to admit he did not know which version he feared to be true the most. Instead he had read the note again and again trying to glean a hidden meaning between the short lines, giving up when every attempt had left his emotions only more confused.

But whatever turned out to be the truth, he was convinced whatever happened here it was going to end the lasting uncertainty and frustration, one way or other. 

Lost in thought he had watched the fire for so long that at first he was unable to see anything when he tore his eyes away from the light to look up as he heard a second door open across from him in the shadows. He cursed himself silently and tried to aim a pistol by sound.

"That won't be necessary, I hope."

At the sound of that mocking voice Treville closed his eyes, simply focusing on breathing.

"I expected you to be upset, but shooting me seems overly dramatic, even for us."

Still unable to respond Treville placed the guns on the desk before him, his limbs numb with relief. He somehow found it in him after a second to raise his arms to bury his face in his hands, elbows resting heavily on the tabletop. 

Nothing followed. The man in the shadows was as still and silent as the grave, no doubt watching his reaction, and Treville could feel his shoulders shake. He took a deep breath. 

"You're not dead then."

When he opened his eyes to finally look at Richelieu he was taken aback by what he saw. By the light of the flickering fireplace the cardinal's eyes look fevered and sunken, his skin waxen and flushed. It was the appearance of a demon possessing a walking corpse.

"Reports of my death were greatly exaggerated," Richelieu scoffed.

_But not by much._

"Good," Treville said and wiped a hand over his eyes. 

"Have you been here, since…" The word stuck in his throat like a bone. 

"Since my death was announced?" Treville recognised that tone of voice – so meek and unassuming. It was usually reserved for foreign dignitaries whom Richelieu needed to convince their sovereigns to commit the lives of their subjects to die for a cause not their own. Of course, without protesting or even realising what he was making them do. "Yes."

It did not work as well on Treville.

"And you didn't tell me until now?"

"Treville—"

It was anger that followed on the relief and returned to him the strength to rise to his feet. It took only a few strides for him to be able to shout into Richelieu's face.

"It has been two weeks!"

"Long enough to miss me I hope?"

Treville growled.

If Richelieu's smile was meant to be appeasing it failed. 

"Have you any idea how much—" He caught himself and took a step back. "The court is in uproar, the king is still inconsolable – everything is in shambles!"

"Treville—"

"Have you any idea how much your king cried for you?"

"You're back to being overly dramatic."

This time it was Treville's turn to scoff. 

"Oh, that's rich coming from you." He stalked back over to the desk. "You staged your own death and yet you say I'm the one being overly dramatic."

"My dear Captain." There was a truly apologetic note in Richelieu's voice as he followed him, but Treville faced him ready to fight.

"Don't touch me," he barked, and maybe he was being overly dramatic, but Richelieu drew back as if bitten.

Once more Treville was struck by how ill and fragile the cardinal looked. Promptly he dropped his hands and retreated to the other side of the room, intent on putting every possible piece of furniture between them – which amounted to the desk, chair, and a small cabinet, and perhaps the fireplace if one were being generous with the term.

He was uncertain which of them he meant to protect.

Richelieu let him, his face more than ever resembling a death mask. 

Treville had to close his eyes against the image since it was mostly his indignation and fury keeping him upright. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and watched the patterns the dancing firelight makes on the floorboards instead, waiting.


	4. Chapter 4

Richelieu waited a good while before he risked talking again.

"I'm glad you came," he said, softly.

A disgruntled noise made up the only sign that Treville was listening.

"I asked you to come here because you deserve to hear an explanation from me."

Treville huffed in response, not looking up.

"You're assuming your personal apology is of any importance to me."

He had to be aware of how Richelieu could very easily point out that Treville trusting his life on nothing but a letter's promise was proof enough of how important the cardinal was to him, but Richelieu refused to rise to the bait. It would only have served to antagonise Treville further.

"You may return to Paris at any time. My servants and stables are at your command in that regard. Although I suggest you wait until it's light again. In the meantime could it hurt to hear me out?" 

Treville looked at him only long enough to glower.

"I accept that you're angry, you have every right to be."

"I sat with you. You were dying." Treville's voice sounded flat as he responded. The fire was gone. "I thought you were dead."

Treville looked away again, shaking his head, and Richelieu took a quick step closer before he caught himself on the edge of the desk.

"But you weren't," Treville continued. "You were here all this time, while I—" He snorted. "Forget it."

"I didn't know I wasn't going to die myself."

Treville made a stifled sound somewhere between a sigh and laugh, grimacing bitterly. But he listened.

"Go on."

Richelieu exhaled, almost too soft to hear. "I was not struck down by sickness, but by poison."

At that Treville tilted his head but said nothing.

"It was not all a charade. I was preparing to die. By the time we knew for certain it was almost too late."

"We?"

Richelieu bit his tongue and sighed again, this time desolate at himself. "One of my physicians had encountered a case like this before, but didn't recognise what he was looking at immediately. None of the other doctors did."

"When was this?"

"The reason—"

"How long," Treville raised his voice, speaking in a slow monotone, "had you known?" He was clearly intent on making his partner know he was exerting every inch of control not to finish what the poisoner had started.

Understanding him all too well Richelieu no longer attempted to soften the blow by trying to assure his Gascon of good reasons and best intentions.

"That I would no longer die from either poison or a mystery illness I learned about five days before my apparent death."

At the other side of the room Treville ran a hand across his face. 

"Who?"

"Pardon?" Treville's response was not quite what Richelieu had expected after the dismal opening.

"Who poisoned you?"

Richelieu inhaled sharply. Why open an entirely new can of worms while the other was still fouling up the air and writhing?

"I can't tell you."

"Lies." For once Treville sought his eyes, looking at him with a gaze of ice. "Don't expect me to believe you don't know who it is."

"I don't expect you to. Which is why I said I can't tell you, not I that did not know."

Treville continued to glower at him, his voice low. "I forgot how much I detest you."

Richelieu again refused to rise to the bait. This was not one of their usual arguments. He knew Treville was being driven by hurt of more than one kind, because the cardinal had spent weeks imagining a whole spectrum of them that still probably did not even cover half of what Treville had been through.

Meanwhile his Gascon was standing as far away from the light of the fireplace as he could, rubbed his eyes and started pacing along the wall, eyes fixed onto the floor and Richelieu felt his words drifting away from him at the sight.

"Would you like some wine?" Richelieu offered; his throat fittingly dry.

For one crystallised moment everything hung in the balance. Treville watched him coolly, then nodded his assent. 

Attempting to hide his relief more out of habit than anything else, Richelieu made a quick gesture entreating Treville to stay put and ducked out of the door the way he had come.

When he returned, followed by a servant carrying bottle of red and a pair of delicate glasses, he was half afraid to find Treville gone and on his way back out to the courtyard by now, demanding a coach to take him back to Paris. It would serve him right, _wouldn't it?_

His heart missed a beat when he opened the door, looked to the corner of the room in which Treville had made his retreat and did not find him there. 

A shuffling alerted him to the fact that the captain had moved to standing by the fireplace and Richelieu resumed breathing. He appeared calmer now. It was not until Treville furrowed his brow at him that Richelieu noticed the thin smile he was wearing. 

"Excellent vintage," he offered in an attempt to cover how agitated he felt at the thought of Treville leaing. He busied himself with filling the glasses and was pleased by the steadiness of his hands, while the servant made a hurried retreat after having placed his charges upon the desk and being dismissed for the night. 

Picking up his wine Richelieu stepped back and left Treville's glass on the table between them along with the bottle as a peace offering. 

Treville took the bottle not even deigning to look at the glass, making Richelieu wince. Whether or a message deliberately intended for him, it had been received. 

As the captain of the musketeers drank, clearly lost in some thought or other, he caressed the bottle with his lips before and after each swig in a manner that Richelieu could not help but think would be stimulating in a different manner under different circumstances.

Well, that was going to be an exceptionally distant thought for some time the way things were going.

"So," Treville did not replace the bottle while he spoke. "You found out you were being poisoned and for some arcane reason decided to let the culprit believe they had succeeded."

"Not entirely arcane." He put his own glass of wine down untouched while Treville clearly contemplated having another swig. Now that the captain was standing by the firelight Richelieu could see the weariness weighing him down: the extra lines in his face, the cloudy cast to his blue eyes. 

And whose fault was that?

The only comfort Richelieu had to offer at this point was honesty and he prayed it would not be mistaken for something else.

"I decided it would be unwise to reveal what was going on until I could narrow down a list of suspects." 

"Hm. Going by the fact that you haven't exposed them yet they're someone important."

Richelieu could not help the smile ghosting over his lips. _Still sharp as ever._

"Who else knows?"

"Only the physician and those directly involved in my relocation. Most of the staff here don't know who I am."

Treville hesitated for a moment, contemplating the wine bottle.

"The monk, too?" 

"Among others," Richelieu said and saw Treville frown. Under normal circumstances he would have enjoyed teasing him about his jealousy, but he had no trouble cecking himself, as in this case the breach of trust was not imagined. "The captain of my guard as well, if you must know. And my brother. This estate was rented for him by a family friend."

Treville sighed and Richelieu watched him as he paced like a caged animal and failing to keep a neutral mien, the grief evident in his deepening frown. 

"But you never thought to tell me." There was still an edge to his voice, but he looked defeated.

Again Richelieu had to resist the urge to walk over to him. "Of course I did."

"When?"

Richelieu tried for a disarming smile as he spoke.

"Just now."

Treville scrunched up his nose in disgust and Richelieu sighed at himself.

"Please, try to understand. It was absolutely imperative for our combined safety that I didn't tell you anything before the situation were brought under control."

Treville shot a glance around the Spartan study, temper flaring back up.

"This is your idea of control? Hiding? Messages sewn into clothing and mystery carriages, while the court fights over your titles and offices?"

"I didn't say we'd quite arrived at that point."

"When are you planning on coming back?" Treville snapped every word but Richelieu heard the stifling hurt and worry underlying the anger.

"It's too early to say."

If his expression was any clue to go by Treville did not like this answer either.

"So you can't catch your man yet."

Suppressing all his sarcastic instincts despite his nature Richelieu simply responded "no."

"Then what changed your mind about telling me?" 

This question Richelieu had not expected. He looked at Treville with an unguarded, stunned expression as though the answer should have been obvious. But apparently Treville needed to hear it.

"You."

Treville blinked at him one, twice, searching his gaze. Then he looked away, exhaling sharply. 

Richelieu reacted at once.

"I didn't expect you would think of me as the kind of man who would watch while you suffered for no gain."

"While I suffered…?" A snort was his response, but he could see Treville smiling in a melancholy fashion immediately after. His eyes shone wet in the darkness. "I thought you were dead."

They had been at this point before but by now the flames had burned out. There was no anger in Treville's voice, but bitterness.

This time Richelieu decided against trying to interrupt him.

"I thought you were dying and you sent me away." Treville leant against the mantelpiece in defeat. "I was at your funeral."

Possibly without even noticing it he was still holding the bottle, clinging to it as for dear life. Even in the dim light his knuckles showed white against the skin making Richelieu fear he would break it.

"I admit it was cruel. Judge me all you need for doing this to you. But if anything, at least believe that I didn't take this decision lightly."

This time as he stepped closer Treville did not flinch, but Richelieu stopped himself before he could have reached for him. There were still words that needed saying first.

"As for sending you away – I couldn't very well have let anyone come to the right conclusions regarding you staying at my side."

Treville met his eyes, pensive. He wrapped his arms around his torso. By now the bottle had been safely abandoned on the mantelpiece.

"Even on that last day? Was it so impossible to see me?"

From his defensive stance and the flat tone of his voice Richelieu thought he knew what was on Treville's mind. He found himself recoiling at the thought of either of them attempting to say goodbye when he knew it would have been a lie. He would have taken the poison again before allowing that.

"No one could be admitted that day or they would have wondered why my last journey would require so much packing."

At least it was not entirely a lie. Of course he had made sure to leave some room in his timetable to admit the king on that day. Since his doctor – on Richelieu's orders – had been spreading word about him fading fast there was no way he could have kept him away. But not only did Louis require much less acting from him, the king had also not threatened to pour out his heart. But the exchange had still left him feeling like the worst sinner in Christendom.

He suppressed a sigh. It had not been the first time he had to do what other people would consider questionable for the greater good. But had he allowed Treville to lay his soul bare that day he would not have been able to bear facing him again. 

He was taken aback at how much the thought upset him. 

"So now that I've seen you're alive and your conscience can rest easy I'm free to go?"

The cardinal winced. He had hoped… but no, he could not force him to stay if he did not want to. 

"If that's what you wish to do."

But Treville remained where he was, leaning against the polished mantelpiece, wrinkling his brow in thought.

"An important person intent on killing you," he said, eventually. "That's the entire court."

Richelieu saw his frown soften and risked moving closer.

"I've missed you."

Treville looked at him through lowered lashes for a moment and then continued as if he had not heard him.

"Or the entire Spanish court!" 

Richelieu had not expected for the renewed argument to cut so deep, and yet he flinched. 

"If you're quite finished." 

"Or maybe one of the German states realised how modest your interest in an alliance against Sweden truly is."

"Right!"

Treville continued to look at him smugly.

"Enough. I'm friendless at court and all of Europe wants to see my blood. Are you satisfied?" 

The smile disappeared from Treville's face and Richelieu cursed them both in his mind. 

_Nothing worked out._

"No, go on!" he said. "It's hilarious! I broke the Huguenots. The emperor and the Spanish throne trembled before me. All the treaties with England and Holland, keeping the balance between appeasing Rome and securing the good will of our protestant neighbours – all that, all of it to gain France her freedom from Habsburg rule, and yet our own nobles – Frenchmen – never cease to plot against me. Twenty years of my life's work and they do their best to ruin it – unthinking, uncaring about what I've achieved and what I can still do!"

He meant to encompass the room in a sweeping gesture but its puniness stopped him. He turned his head, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice, and not caring to try too hard.

"Did you know, just when I fell ill, I was on the verge of driving the German states to war with Austria on our behalf? And now I'm stuck here and all I can do is have my agents barely keep French nobles from undoing all we have achieved." 

He was surprised he was breathing hard once he had ended. He was also surprised to find Treville standing so close to him. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, mostly out of annoyance with himself.

"I'm sorry." He paused, attempting to take a calming breath. "Everything was going too well. Our enemies to the east distracted by plague and war. England and Spain estranged. Savoy and Lorraine collared. The king and queen reconciled for once and a Royal heir on the horizon at last. _You_." He gestured at Treville unable to meet his eyes again and sighed. "And now we find ourselves on the brink again."

From the corner of his eye he saw Treville step closer and turned just as Treville grabbed him by the shoulders and spun them around. Their positions reversed the back of Richelieu's head hit the wall, his grunt of pain cut off as Treville kissed him. 

His lips parted willingly, admitting that demanding tongue, while his hands sought to pull the body pressing him against the wall even closer. One hand found its way into Treville's short hair, the other clutched at his back before moving lower to grab his behind.

Treville moaned into his mouth appreciatively and Richelieu found himself grinning around their kiss.

He could not help the sound of loss that escaped him when the captain pushed himself off almost immediately after.

"I've missed you as well," Treville sighed into his collar before taking a step back and gathering the cardinal's hands in his. 

Richelieu was loath to let Treville escape his embrace but his limbs felt like putty. Instead he stepped in and laid his head on Treville's shoulder, their hands trapped between them. It was not the most comfortable position due to Treville's lack of height but he would not have moved for the world.

"Shall we consider moving this to a more comfortable place?"

He heard and felt Treville growl deep in his throat. But then Treville pulled away again, far enough to be able to look Richelieu in the eye.

"You should have told me."


	5. Chapter 5

Richelieu's brain was too fuzzy for him to realise what Treville meant at first.

"What exactly are you referring to?"

"Anything. Everything."

"I couldn't."

Treville sighed. Had he not been holding his hands Richelieu knew he would have rubbed his eyes again.

"That you keep telling me at least." 

Treville's frustration appeared almost a physical presence in the room. It was evident in his sighs, and in his restlessness – now confined to his fingers drawing circles onto his lover's skin. Any moment now he would drop Richelieu's hands and start pacing again. 

Briefly Richelieu lowered his eyelids and took a deep breath. 

"I couldn't risk my assassin catching on to the fact that I knew what was going on and stopped taking the poison."

Treville stared at him, fire in his voice when he responded: "You believe I would've told them?"

"Not precisely."

Treville let out a short, breathy laugh somewhere between a cough and a bark that hurt to hear.

"You think I couldn't have kept my mouth shut?" He shook his head. "While your life was in danger?"

"You would have immediately tried to sniff out the culprit."

"Of course!" He did drop Richelieu's hands now. "It's my job. There's a murderer at court!"

"This is exactly why it was safer to wait." Richelieu ignored Treville's huffing. "You wouldn't have needed to say anything to alarm the assassin."

"I would have been discreet."

Richelieu steepled his hands in front of his face and looked to the heavens for support.

"Yes," he said. "Like the time you lost those letters for the king, because thanks to your discretion the person who took them knew exactly where to look for them. Or the time you were being so discreet about your involvement in the affair with Savoy that one of your musketeers decided nothing would bring the world more joy than an attempt to break your nose."

The row they had had over that last one had been one of the more impressive tests of their relationship in recent times.

"I hate to be the one to tell you, but you are not as subtle as you think. Especially not when you're this emotional."

He did not _entirely_ hate telling him. It was high time Treville accepted there were parts of the game he simply was not made for. While Richelieu was at court and could steer his efforts in the direction he desired or play damage control when needed, Treville's fumbling at subterfuge was endearing. But not while Richelieu was stuck here and losing this particular match would get his Gascon killed.

If the derisive snort was any clue that made up Treville's only response the famed captain of the musketeers saw the matter differently.

"You could just tell me what you found out about their identity, so I wouldn't have to do any of my clumsy snooping when I get back."

"I'm not going to tell you." Richelieu put a soothing a hand on his arm but Treville shook him off, and the cardinal was tempted to reach for the bottle on the mantelpiece himself. "I don't want you to chase them out of the country with your suspicions."

Treville huffed in indignation and Richelieu swallowed another sigh. The captain's concern for him as well as his outrage at the attempted murder would have been immensely flattering if they did not prove such hindrances.

"Am I to do nothing then?"

"This isn't going to end unless I can expose them while they are within our reach. I promise I will let you handle the arrest once the time comes."

Treville glowered at him, but said nothing.

This time it was Richelieu who took one of the musketeer's hands to pull him closer. Treville let him. 

"This person, whom we have already established is extremely powerful, is not only incredibly subtle, they are also clever." Richelieu sought Treville's gaze and held it. "Once they have the faintest inkling that you suspect anything about either them or my death they will come after you."

"Even more important then that I know who they are." 

Richelieu pressed his eyes closed, feeling weak in the face of such extraordinary stubbornness.

"Please," he said, finding himself, for once, at wit's end. "Let me handle this." There was little he could do but beg. If Treville refused to take his advice, refused to be protected and threw caution into the wind … "You're in no danger now, I promise you, and I'd prefer it stayed that way."

They were standing close together now and Richelieu was clutching Treville's captured hand to his heart, looking down into his eyes and searching his face with an earnest expression. His lover sighed.

"I'm not going to act against them until you tell me to."

Richelieu held his breath.

"But you need to tell me who they are."

"I'm not giving you information that is going to kill you."

"It's not going to." 

"Suppose it does." It was far from a calm and collected proposal and Richelieu was not ashamed that it showed in his voice. Anything he could use to make Treville see reason was fair in his eyes. "What am I supposed to return to then?"

Treville looked startled, taken aback for a moment, but did not hesitate long coming up with an answer: "A king who worships you and a bright future in politics."

"True, but I'd prefer you alive and well", Richelieu said. In his week-long pining he somehow must have forgotten that his love could be as romantic as a chamber pot. 

"How am I supposed to return to court and pretend to know nothing when anyone could be involved in your murder?"

"You were adamant about finding out why I would prefer not to tell you anything at all. Now you know."

"Someone tried to murder you, for God's sake!"

"As you pointed out earlier in a somewhat different manner, people are constantly trying to murder me."

Honest guilt showed in Treville's face as the red on his cheeks – previously coloured by his shouting – darkened, toned by shame.

"O, don't be sorry. It comes with the position", Richelieu said. "You make yourself a factum and there will always be people who feel like they ought to test how irreplaceable you truly are."

Treville did not appear convinced as he continued to look upset. So in a consolatory gesture Richelieu raised his hand to his lips to kiss.

"If it is of any comfort to you, it has become infinitely more bearable since you elected to stop being one of those people."

Treville claimed his hand back but only to place both of them on either side of Richelieu's waist. The cardinal could only assume that he was prepared to give in to Richelieu's reasoning if only prompted in the right manner.

"I'm surprised you even asked me here if all this secrecy is so vital to your plan."

"If by 'plan' you mean our continued existence?"

The long-suffering look Treville sent him did not make him regret his words. If bluntness was what it took to ensure the captain would be careful once he returned to court then he was not above making use of it.

"And yet you told me about the poison, knowing how I would react."

"Ah, now that…" A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth and Richelieu could not decide just how bitter it was. "I was being selfish." 

Treville regarded him from under raised eyebrows.

"You weren't entirely wrong when you accused me of calling you here to appease my conscience. I couldn't abandon you."

It did not escape Richelieu that Treville made no attempt to object. But he was also aware of Treville's hands resting just above his hips. His own hands lay flat on Treville's chest and he regretted the captain's jacket being made of such sturdy leather.

"I needed to set this to rights. I needed you here." He let one hand wander upwards, to Treville's neck, brushing a cheek. "I need you."

Treville cleared his throat. 

"How can you be so sure no one suspects we were closer than we let on, when – after—" he paused for a moment, lost in thought. "You're right about me not being a very good actor when I'm… emotionally compromised." He opened his mouth to continue but stopped himself, probably having noticed how brittle his voice had become.

Richelieu swallowed, needing to clear his head before he could answer. Undeniably a part of him was still focused on the direction their conversation had previously been headed in.

"They'll assume the upheaval in the wake of my death and nobles fighting tooth and nail over my offices will have put you under a lot of stress." They most likely had - in addition to all the other things that had been done to Treville by his gambit. 

Richelieu himself had to fight for words as his chest constrained. 

"No one looks to such an outlandish explanation when there's a simpler one and far more self-evident."

"You're certain?"

Richelieu nodded. Treville prided himself on keeping aloof from the more savoury goings-on at court. Yet at the same time these matters formed the basis of all the important bits of social life at court and root of most alliances between the nobles. Thus there was no one close enough to him in the capitol of power to have possibly identified any distraction as signs of grief. Perhaps there was some overly concerned musketeer out there, but no one whose word would have mattered.

Somehow the thought failed to cheer the cardinal.

But Treville must have been occupied with an entirely different line of thought for in the dim light of the gradually dying fire Richelieu almost missed him leaning in for another kiss. It was tenderer than the first they had shared that evening. 

This time it was Richelieu who pulled away first and Treville's subsequent growl lit fires all along his spine.

"Bed, my dear. Bed."

Treville shot a furtive look at the desk but Richelieu already started pulling him towards the door. They were both too old to risk faulty furniture. Leaving behind an undisturbed desk atop which sat the wine glasses, one full and the other untouched; he lit a candle left behind for him by the servant and led the way down a series of hallways to a bedroom that had been prepared for his use.

There was little else spoken that night. The cardinal had a lot to make up to Treville.

* * *

Richelieu awoke to twilight, muscles aching in the most pleasing manner. He decided against getting up as Treville lay curled on his side next to him, one arm flung possessively across Richelieu's chest. Neither the idea of waking him by moving or having Treville wake up to find him gone appealed to him. The fact that the musketeer was at present no longer snoring told Richelieu he would wake soon anyway, and until then the cardinal would enjoy the rare privilege of watching his lover sleep. 

They rarely had the opportunity to spend an entire night together. Sex, yes; but the simple act of sleeping in the same bed they could seldom afford. It was a pity, Richelieu thought, as he watched Treville's face, smoothed by sleep, since there was something immensely pleasurable and flattering to knowing that the captain allowed himself to be seen in the vulnerable state of sleep like this, unguarded, naked as the Lord had created him.

He did not have to wait long. Soon Treville stirred, sleepy blue eyes eventually focussing on Richelieu's face.

"Good morning, Captain."

Treville blinked at him lazily. A moment later he snapped awake, sitting up in a flash, and stared at man sharing a bed with him, all colour drained from his face. Richelieu watched as the realisation dawned and recollection of what happened the day before returned. 

"I swear to you I am neither a spirit nor a demon," Richelieu said, giving Treville time to gather himself. "But I'm certain you convinced yourself of that fact to your satisfaction last night."

Treville groaned, likely at himself, and rubbed his eyes. 

"How are you?" 

Having taken a moment to think, and no longer resembling in colour his linen shirt that presently lay in a heap on the floor, Treville said "better."

It was enough for Richelieu. He sought Treville's arm and pulled, but the captain refused to lie back down. He sat, leaning against the bed-rest, covers pooling in his lap, seemingly looking at nothing in particular in the half-light.

"Your funeral mass…"

Ears perked, Richelieu raised himself on one elbow, uncertain whether he liked the direction this conversation was taking."

"Did Père Joseph write the sermon all by himself or did you tell him what to put in there?"

"I left that part of the arrangements to the père. What kind of narcissist do you take me for?" Then, softer, he added, "Did you like it?" 

"I didn't hear much of it." He sighed. "I tried not to listen. But the king claims it was beautiful."

Richelieu remained silent for a while. In all his planning, even in what fretting he had allowed himself over what he was going to put Treville through, it had never entered his mind that he would not simply make Treville mourn him, but had done so while ignoring all the ways in which grieving had essentially been impossible for him.

He reached for Treville's hand under the covers, but apologising and kissing it better would not help the fact that, barring any accidents connected so often connected to the life of a musketeer, it was Treville who would most likely face the same situation again eventually. 

Treville continued, sounding wistful: "I even considered writing to your family at one point to offer my formal condolences. But they'd only have wondered who I was to you."

Richelieu drew his hand towards his chest and succeeded in making his Gascon look at him.

"I never introduced you to my niece Marie Madelaine, did I? She's the only one worth knowing, you'd enjoy her conversation."

Treville's expression softened. It was a small smile, but it was a smile. "I'd like that."

They both sat in silence for a moment before Richelieu cleared his throat in order to swallow the viscous sentimentality that had engulfed him so suddenly.

"You should stop being so jealous of Père Joseph. You know I prefer bright young things."

Treville wrinkled his brow at him. "I didn't know the poison affected your eye-sight." But at the same time he squeezed Richelieu's hand. 

"What's the plan from here on?" he asked after pause.

The captain was still in a contemplative mood, but for the moment Richelieu decided to lead the conversation onto a different track.

"You were intent on making things difficult earlier, but I've been thinking about keeping you here."

Treville grimaced as if he were not quite sure if he were joking.

"You know that's impossible. I have my duties—"

But Richelieu interrupted him: "You burned my note I take it?"

"It's in my pocket. I'm surprised you signed it."

"It was the only way to ensure you would come here."

"But you risked your secret being revealed!"

"A risk worth taking, as I told you." Richelieu remarked and Treville's frown softened.

"Still, it would be best if I returned tonight. Before the musketeers wonder where I've disappeared to."

"And well they should." Richelieu did not attempt to suppress the grin that began to spread across his face as he spoke, making Treville narrow his eyes at him again.

"You have obviously been kidnapped. You climbed into a coach no one can connect to me, you ordered no one to follow you, and you have no idea where you are."

"Armand." There lay an unmistakable warning in that word.

The grin turned smug. "Poor Captain Treville. You better be on your best behaviour if you intend to go home."

Treville lunged without warning. In a flash he was straddling Richelieu pinning his arms to the mattress. "Or maybe you'll be on your best behaviour," he growled.

The cardinal smiled up at him. "Will you at least grant me the honour of having breakfast with me first before you requisition one of your captor's coaches and leave?"

"Hm." Treville made, contemplating what particular kind of breakfast he could have in mind. "Maybe later," he said and lay down next to him again, pillowing his head on the cardinal's shoulder.

Richelieu took the opportunity to wrap an arm around his lover's back. "But since you were asking after my glorious plan…" he smirked as Treville rolled his eyes at him, "the goal is not only to create a surprise for my assassin but for the entire court. To that aim I presently have people hunting for proof of several pieces of intelligence that have fallen into my hands."

"About the assassin?"

"Among others. It won't do for one to take the fall only to have another pack of nobles mourning the good old feudal times that made them kings in their own castles rise up to replace them immediately." He sighed. "Governing would be so much easier if I did not spend half my time fighting the king's own nobles. Austria and Spain combined aren't half the enemy the French nobility is."

"Nobles like me?"

"No. You have a brain somewhere in your thick skull."

Treville shot him an exasperated look, but there was a fond smile tugging at his lips.

"What are you going to do about them?"

"They forgot how irreplaceable I am – they needed a reminder. What better way to achieve that goal than a grand entrance. I'll return from my self-imposed exile, uncovering a Spanish spy highly placed at court. Simultaneously, and more privately, I hope to present a good number of them with blackmail." 

Treville's expression turned solemn for a moment.

"And there is nothing I can do?" 

"You are the world's greatest soldier, but you are not its greatest schemer. There is no shame in that." Richelieu ran a finger along the musketeer's collarbone. "I much prefer you as you are."

"I should have told you before," Treville's cheeks flushed hot with embarrassment, "the king offered me your seat on the council."

That had the cardinal suck in his breath through his teeth. The seat emptied by Richelieu had been the one at the king's right hand. He briefly wondered why none of his agents had reported this particular development to him yet. 

"Naturally you declined."

"Naturally."

Richelieu sighed dramatically. "I hoped I could stay hidden a while longer, but if the king is making decisions that dire…?"

He expected Treville to voice his disagreement with an offended bark, but instead his Gascon buried his face in the crook of his neck, and Richelieu found himself overcome with sentiment. "My dear," he said and kissed his hair. "I take it the king was displeased with your refusal."

Treville let out a wounded groan against his skin and Richelieu reflexively tightened his embrace.

"Pardon?"

"He only let me know he was mortally offended and advised me not to disappoint him again." Treville's voice sounded a little breathy. 

Richelieu threaded consoling fingers into his lover's hair. "You made the right choice. You would have made a terrible minister."

He had joked about considering revealing himself early, but this sounded grim. If Treville ever lost favour with the king, and Louis ever lost interest in his blue attired toy soldiers Treville's position at court would turn precarious, especially without Richelieu there to protect him from the shadows. 

They had to be prepared for the eventuality. 

"Anything else I should know?" _Burned any other bridges? Salted the earth while I was gone?_ It was worry putting him on edge, but he still swallowed the harsher words.

"My musketeers got your man Rochefort back from Spain." 

That he knew. He was already working on a way to keep his eye on him. The Comte couldn't be too happy about having been abandoned in a Spanish prison after a mission gone sour. Unfortunately the Spanish had not done the decent thing of ridding them both of a liability like him, so it would fall to Richelieu to watch him and make sure he did not plan on revenging himself on the nation that had forgotten him. 

But none of it was information Treville would appreciate knowing. Certainly not before breakfast.

Richelieu made thoughtful noise. He dropped his hand from Treville's head back to his neck and shoulder and found him still tense. Even after all these years the captain of the musketeers remained squeamish about certain aspects of how Richelieu chose to serve the state, like him taking precautions not to leave his tools intact for anybody else to use. 

It was one of the reasons Treville had proved so invaluable to him, but in this case Richelieu would err on the side of ruthless caution.

"He says there was another Frenchman held prisoner with him. I sent him back to Spain along with some musketeers to prove his claims and the free the prisoner if possible. On the king's orders." 

Or maybe the tenseness was due to whatever Treville still had to say. From Treville's tone of voice the cardinal guessed he would not like what he was going to hear. He sucked in and held an anticipatory breath. 

"He claims the prisoner's General de Foix."

Richelieu forgot he was holding his breath for a moment and eventually released it in a choking cough. 

Raising himself to his knees Treville made him sit up until the cardinal waved him away. 

This was bad. How could de Foix have ended up a prisoner of Spain after supposedly falling against Sweden? Were there agreements he knew nothing off?

"De Foix?" he croaked.

Treville pulled the covers up again and laid his head back down onto Richelieu's shoulder, returning Richelieu's one-armed embrace.

"When I received your note I thought it was curious I should be promised two resurrections. At first I thought I was abandoning my musketeers to chase a ghost, but here you are…" 

And of course there was also the matter of de Foix' being an old friend of Treville's. Should he truly still be alive, and should the musketeers be able to retrieve him, and should the king be persuaded to in turn convince de Foix to stay in Paris, an extra ally would certainly be of use; especially one that would look out for Treville. 

But those were a lot of hypotheses.

More likely de Foix was dead and Rochefort had decided to begin exacting his revenge by luring the king's favoured troops into a bloody trap through pretty lies. Or, if de Foix was found alive the musketeers could fail to rescue him. Or any other number of things might go wrong. Richelieu prayed that should the musketeers truly botched that rescue attempt de Foix would die rather than remain in the hands of their enemy – preferably before they tortured any valuable information out of him. That way it was only Spain who would come out of this madness with any loss. 

And Treville of course. 

Said musketeer must have taken Richelieu's prolonged silence as an expression of discouragement. Richelieu could sense his mood change even before he made a despondent sound.

He was at a loss for what to tell him. There was no gentle way to snuff hope, and he had no intention of seeing him hurt again so soon. But no doubt Treville realised the disaster de Foix' survival might unleash. 

"Trust it to the Lord," Richelieu said and returned to stroking his lover's hair. "And your musketeers."

He heard Treville swallow, felt him breath harshly against his skin, and wondered who exactly Treville was mourning: de Foix, who might have returned from death only to die again; or him, who had already died and remained unmourned; or maybe for all the sorry ghosts equally?


	6. Chapter 6

When Treville returned to Paris the musketeers were unable to wangle out of him where he had been. But they found that their captain seemed a lot more relaxed than before and eventually decided not to push their luck by poking too many holes into a happy miracle.

A couple of days later Athos' squad returned. With de Foix. Treville was prepared to believe in miracles repeating themselves until he embraced his friend and his hand came away bloody.

Another couple of days later de Foix was dead.

Having sat with him through fever and pain and watched him draw his last breath Treville was certain there would be no second resurrection for him.

His earthly remains were given over to Lucie who arranged for him to be laid to rest on the family estate.

Treville had arranged a small musketeer escort for her, careful to have the proposal suggested to the king indirectly through the queen.

And that was that.

There was no state funeral for the great general. What ceremony was held over his dead body was a small, private affair; almost clandestine compared to Richelieu's funeral mass only a couple of week earlier. The king's council had decided that it would be unwise to let de Foix' brief resurrection and the subsequently failed rescue become public.

The aftermath alone of that funeral proved easier to bear than the last. At least at the garrison there were no improper comments heard about the deceased this time, and as the musketeers expected their captain to mourn he was not required to pretend to be cheerful as grief shredded his guts.

The evening of Lucie's departure d'Artagnan, Athos, Aramis and Porthos invited him to the tavern to share stories about de Foix. Treville would have accepted, but Porthos being there complicated matters too much. He could not deny the stab of guilt at the thought, but memories of de Foix were all too often accompanied by memories of Belgard.

He had promised one dead friend to tell Porthos the truth when he had promised to protect him from it at all costs to another, and he was uncertain whether there would ever be a time he could choose which promise to break.

At present he remembered the looks on their faces as he had declined their offer: expressions of disappointment but also worry. He wondered what he had done to deserve not only their loyalty but their affection as well. Especially as he now proved too cowardly to risk losing either.

At that thought Treville became aware that he might have already made his choice - to the disadvantage of de Foix.

The carriage waited for him in the garrison upon entering the courtyard as it had the first time. Although It was a different carriage, a different footman, different driver, different livery.

When Treville had asked Richelieu how to contact him, Richelieu had responded that it would be best if he did not. Any pattern in communication could be observed and discovered by the wrong people. Treville understood the need for secrecy and to minimise contact, but part of him had begged to start another fight over the issue.

Now he wondered how Richelieu imagined a regular chain of mystery coaches to remain undiscovered.

The note the footman delivered contained nothing but indifferent topics on the surface, but its stylistic markings were those of the first note: typical of Richelieu's private letters to him. The signature had been shortened to a simple upper case 'R' in the cardinal's distinctive, elegant hand. Perhaps the change meant Richelieu had taken Treville's worry to heart.

As another measure of caution there was no line of invitationthis time, but the appearance of the coach in the courtyard spoke loudly enough.

Treville swept a rueful glance over the paperwork piling up on his desk, but told himself that he would be back by the afternoon of the next day at the latest, and he was suddenly glad of not having accepted his musketeers' offer: There was nothing holding him back, since there was no work so pressing that it could not wait or be dealt with by one of his subordinates, and ever since their falling-out the king had failed to demand his personal presence during any of the Royal daily rituals. If that ever were to change they needed to work out a way for Richelieu to announce these pickups ahead of time. But meanwhile the thought of seeing Richelieu again filled him with pathetic longing.

The ride in the carriage took too long for his liking and allowed him to fill his head with doubt again. What if their mystery assassin found out about their secrets? What time he had spent at court since Richelieu had revealed himself to be alive had not been free of suspicions. He had not made a move against anyone just as he had promised, but each day he could not help wondering which of the noble and powerful the king and queen surrounded themselves with presently believed they had been lucky enough to get away with murder.

But as he had pointed out to Richelieu in a moment of malice, the list of suspects was disturbingly long.

Even when it came to the people he considered his allies Richelieu never looked for companions as much as people who could help him along.

Treville sighed. Some of the people Richelieu had dropped in the past had been the very people to help jump-start the cardinal's career, both in the church as well as in the world of politics. Sure, a convincing argument could be made that at the time Richelieu had refused to offer a helping hand in turn most of them would have proven a destabilising, even dangerous element to French politics. But a sour taste remained on his tongue as Treville thought of them.

To say their relationship at times proved rocky because of matters like these was an understatement.

Some of these sacrifices Treville had known himself when he had just been admitted to court: Legendary figures who had already served Louis' father. To Richelieu they had been nothing much but tools and stepping stones, all the more useful for their high status.

Even Treville had wondered at one time. Wondered what the cardinal gained out of their relationship apart from a convenient outlet for a socially unacceptable lust. Wondered when it would be his turn to be abandoned. _Hell_ , had he not sat wondering only just before receiving that first note?

When one was with the cardinal it was easy to pretend that it would be different for oneself. The one not to be discarded. The exception.

But then Richelieu was good at telling what people were after. He had an uncanny gift for giving them exactly what they desired to make them pliable to his own goals.

When the cardinal had revealed himself in that small study, before his outbreak during their fight Treville had briefly wondered what he had even been grieving for. Richelieu had no longer appeared human to him - until the cardinal's impassioned speech that had made evident all the bitterness and desperation he hid from day to day under the mantle of the professionally cool stoic.

It was a thought that filled him with hot shame now, amplified in the wake of the loss of de Foix. Of course Treville meant something to Richelieu beyond a tool. And of course Treville still held affection for him, after everything. Whatever had started their affair and whatever they had turned it into now – to have had this experience, together, had been worth the pain of its loss once and it was again.

Now that Treville had found it again, had found him again, he would not waste an ounce of it doubting what they had.

But the fact remained that Richelieu used people and abandoned them as soon as they stopped being useful to him. It would not be surprising to learn that one of them should have tried to turn the tables before the cardinal could sacrifice them.

Or that someone would have tried who had already been sacrificed.

An idea crept up to him.

_Milady?_

But no. Richelieu said he knew the responsible parties and that they were highly placed in court. Still, whoever they were they could always have made use of a skilled assassin out for revenge against her old master.

With a start he regretted having allowed Athos' free reign in how to deal with her. Certainly there had been few people more deeply wounded by her than Athos, and eventually even he had deemed her no longer a threat. But then Athos never had cause to take any threat to Richelieu into account.

But Treville also had to wonder about Richelieu's other operatives. He had to think of the man he had sent his musketeers to accompany to fetch deFoix so shortly ago and who was making good with the king where Treville had failed. Rochefort was a Comte, a highly regarded nobleman who had been in the cardinal's service for years. When Richelieu had been poisoned Rochefort had admittedly still been presumed vanished, a prisoner of Spain, but what if there was someone quite like Rochefort still out there?

It was no use contemplating. Richelieu would not tell him, and he would learn the truth eventually. That was, if he managed to protect Richelieu's secret and in turn his lover long enough. But contemplating filled the time until the coach drew up in front of the chateau. Contemplating the assassin had stopped him from thinking about de Foix instead.

But now, as he stepped out of the carriage into the paved courtyard the memory returned; of de Foix' death and of the first time he had lost him. And with the memory returned the emotions.

As he was left alone to wait in the study once more he remained standing by the door, leaning against the wall with a deep sigh.

And of course de Foix had to bring up Belgard and Porthos' heritage with his dying breath.

Treville closed his eyes and sagged against the wall. Richelieu was right. He was useless when he was being emotional. And the cardinal did not even know half of it.

Said cardinal presently entered the room with a rustling of black robes causing Treville to look up. Even when in hiding he took comfort in the luxury of wearing black velvet robes, and, as Treville had learned, silk shirts underneath as cool and elegant as their owner.

Absent-mindedly he noticed that Richelieu appeared healthier than he had during their last meeting: His skin looked less waxen and pale. But then maybe he only looked better compared to the image of feverish de Foix dying of gangrene that his inner eye chose to conjure.

"How are you?"

Richelieu's voice tore him out of his stupor. The cardinal had halted in the middle of the room, probably wondering at the lack of a warm greeting.

Treville felt another sigh building up in his chest, but simply looked at Richelieu, feeling tired.

"Can't your spies tell you?"

"I'd prefer to hear it from you."

Remaining where he was standing Richelieu clasped his hands in front of him. Treville somewhat shamefully realised he was being difficult again, but found he had a right to be. Sharing his feelings and talking about de Foix was not something he was keen on. What he longed for was the kind of comfort they had shared the last time de Foix had died.

"You did not ask me here only to see how I was doing?"

"It will come as a surprise to you then, but that is exactly why I invited you here."

Treville could not hold that sigh back any longer. "Could we not move this somewhere else?"

Richelieu raised an eyebrow at him but said "Certainly. If you would follow me."

They were heading the same way they had last time. The bedroom door had barely fallen closed behind them before Treville pressed himself to Richelieu's back, embracing him, and tiptoeing to press his lips to his neck.

Richelieu leant back into his touch as Treville's fingers roamed over his torso, undoing the loops and buttons that held his outer garments together. He turned around in Treville's arms, shrugging off the heavy robe, facing him in silken shirt, stockings and braies.

Richelieu angled his head to look into his lover's eyes and Treville met his gaze. He briefly wondered what he cardinal found in there, before the cardinal moved one hand up to encircle his neck, pulling him in for a kiss.

Treville let go of another sigh, still pained. It still was not enough.

But it seemed that Richelieu understood. Deftly undoing the buttons on Treville's own jacket he pulled him towards the bed.

There Richelieu focused on stripping him of his clothes rather than touching, until with a noise of frustration Treville pulled him down onto the mattress with him.

He craved to make love as if he meant to shatter himself doing it, but Richelieu held him back. Rolling him onto his back with purpose; sitting between his knees; holding his hips in place with a firm grip as he licked a path from the navel to the cock waiting for him half hard between Treville's legs.

As Richelieu coaxed him to stand up proud with tongue and lips, hands remaining firmly on his hips, Treville forgot his cravings and let Richelieu shatter him any way he saw fit.

It took what felt like an inordinately long series of almost releases for him to come crashing down, but the cardinal worked for it, and every second Treville remained on the edge drove away the pain and the lingering sense of betrayal further.

Eventually he moaned into his fist, his other hand clenching in his lover's curly hair as Richelieu swallowed around him before looking up with a soft smile on his wet lips, and kissing the tip of his cock for good measure.

After a moment that allowed both of them to catch their breath Richelieu sent him an inquiring look from between his legs and Treville simply nodded at him. He sank back into the feathery mattress entirely relaxed as Richelieu prepared him, too lost in sensation and the effort to keep the memories of past events at bay until they had lost their bite to help him.

But Richelieu did not appear to mind, and Treville for once simply enjoyed being signalled what Richelieu needed him to do when he missed a clue. Soon he was groaning again, hips raised to meet his lover, and he appreciated the way Richelieu made him feel, all senses and no mind.

Richelieu came with a shaky breath and Treville watched him as he moved off him to lie down at his side. They shared a kiss in which Treville could taste gratitude along with his own scent. 

He felt tempted to fall asleep like this even though the night was still young. But Richelieu had other plans. As much as Treville wished to forget it there was still a reason the cardinal had called him here.

"And now," Richelieu asked and through the comfortable blanket of sexual satisfaction Treville could feel the barbs poking at him again. "How are you?"

But this blanket helped, and Treville arranged the covers around them both, not entirely as a means to stall.

"De Foix is dead," he whispered, telling Richelieu nothing he did not already know.

"I'm sorry."

Not as sorry as Treville was.

It had been foolish, it had been selfish, but he had looked forward to having him back. Even though all their correspondence for the last decade or so that de Foix had been, to Treville's knowledge, alive, had been written rather than shared face to face. Even though it had been so very long since the last time he had beheld him in the flesh before de Foix had gotten off that horse and stumbled into his arms in the garrison courtyard. Time had not changed the intensity of his affections for the man that he had once called his brother. Death, the first death, had only turned these affections into something passive, something static. It was the shape in which they were to remain forever now.

"I had just gotten used to the idea that he was alive." He snorted, shaking his head at himself. When he was done Richelieu kissed the tip of his ear.

"We could have tired the soldiers with our war stories and drank away our senses on his estate until we threw up our guts. He owns a vineyard in the Guyenne." He smiled at a memory and then frowned. "Well, it's his family's now. Has been for a while, most likely."

"I take it he didn't have much opportunity for drinking in the last few days."

Treville grimaced. "Didn't get too much out of it. Apart from numbing the pain."

He blinked away the grief. Meanwhile Richelieu had returned to stroking his hair. Treville sought his touch like a cat. He had to think of what else de Foix had brought him in his last days, apart from memories of wine, and he choked down a bitter laugh. He chided himself for the thought. It had not been de Foix's fault. It had been Belgard's first and now it was Treville's own, alone, because he could not blame the dead for being no longer around to clean up their messes.

But the fact remained that de Foix' return had resembled less a resurrection less than a haunting.

And now the ghost once more was nothing but a ghost.

He felt Richelieu's lips brush over his brow and wondered what legacy the cardinal would leave him once he disappeared again, for the final time.

But this thought as well was unfair and he banished it by turning on his side to draw Richelieu into his arms, tucking his head between his lover's collarbone and chin.

"What is it?" Richelieu asked and his continued ministrations eventually succeeded in shaking the tears that had been lodged there free of the corners of Treville's eyes.

In lieu of a response Treville tightened his grip.

Because the thing about ghosts was, even when you were holding on, they could vanish at any moment.


End file.
